


His Father's Son

by Jenksel



Category: The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Drugs, Episode: s02e03 And What Lies Beneath the Stones, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Hallucinations, Hallucinogens, Implied Underage Sex, Repeating Family Dysfunction, Sex Fantasy, Shapeshifters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 11:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18637024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenksel/pseuds/Jenksel
Summary: Jenkins remembers the thing he wishes he could forget.  Takes place during "And What Lies Beneath the Stones".  Another WIP I began a couple of years ago but only finished now.





	His Father's Son

With every passing moment Jenkins regretted more and more having filched his invitation to the Marquis de Sade’s party from his old friend, the Duc d’Martet.  For months, Jenkins had heard the rumors and stories burning through Paris like a wildfire about the Marquis de Sade and his very dark, disturbing peccadilloes, but the immortal thought they were most likely exaggerated.  The aristocracy loved nothing more, after all, than to gossip about their own, the stories embroidered upon and embellished more and more with each telling.

One of the more interesting stories, however, was the one that told how the Marquis had engaged a master impressionist for this particular party, a man who could change his appearance into that of any person in the blink of an eye, like magic, and mimic them perfectly.  The Librarian suspected that the mimic was in fact a face-dancer, and because of his many connections among the Continental nobility, she had sent Jenkins to investigate, with strict orders to confirm the existence of a face-dancer only, but _not_ to engage it.  Jenkins had nodded solemnly in acknowledgement of his orders, but he had no intention of obeying them.  Shapeshifters were notoriously difficult to track down, and the Caretaker knew that once he found this one, he would have to be deal with immediately; there would be no time to wait for the Librarian.  If he lost the shapeshifter now, they may _never_ find it again.

After several large sherries during his visit to the Duc, it was a simple thing for the wily Caretaker to suggest a game of Briscan—and then to continually raise the stakes with each successive hand until he eventually won the inebriated man’s precious invitation with a particularly “skillful” turn of the cards.  Jenkins planned to use the invitation to crash the party by presenting himself as the Duc at the door, then mingling incognito amongst the large group of guests once he was inside.  Now that he was actually at the party, Jenkins realized that he had been foolish to dismiss the outlandish-sounding tales.  If anything, they paled in comparison to the reality.

He wanted to turn around and leave the chateau immediately, but he had to verify whether or not a true face-dancer—a shapeshifter—had indeed been engaged by the Marquis.  If it really was a shapeshifter, it needed to be dealt with as quickly as possible before it caused any harm.  It could be especially dangerous in France.  The socio-political situation here was becoming increasingly volatile, and Jenkins could easily see a shapeshifter, under the control of an unscrupulous opportunist, being used as a tool for sparking violent social upheaval, perhaps even outright revolt.  It wouldn’t take much to set off the powder keg that was steadily building up year by year amongst the French bourgeois and peasant classes.

So he stayed, difficult as it was to do so.  It had been a very long time since the immortal had last seen depravity on this scale.  Male and female servants, some merely children, none of them wearing a stitch of clothing, circulated amongst the partygoers and served food and wine.  Jenkins quickly learned, to his revulsion, that not only were the refreshments available for the taking, but the servants themselves were also free to any who fancied them.

Not that the servants were especially willing, he grimly noted.  The poor wretches seemed rather stupefied.  Jenkins didn’t consider himself to be a prig, but he did firmly believe in a certain level of decency, and it turned his stomach to see these drunken fops and dowagers lasciviously pawing children.  Sadly, the nobility and its attitudes towards the lower classes had changed very little since Jenkins was a young man.  His own father had once recommended to the young Galahad that the best way to deal with any lustful impulses was simply to pick a nice buxom village girl and bed her.  It was totally irrelevant whether she was willing or not; it was his privilege and right as a knight and a nobleman.  Galahad had been appalled at the idea, and refused steadfastly to subscribe to it.  It was one of the many ‘odd’ things about him that set him apart from many of the other knights and courtiers of Arthur’s court.

And now here he was in _this_ mire of vice.  The Caretaker forced himself to focus on the task at hand, finding the shapeshifter, and to not pay attention to the goings on around him.  It was difficult for him to remain detached, though.  The knight’s Code of Chivalry was deeply ingrained and faithfully followed, and every fiber of his being screamed for him to do something to help these unfortunate servants, but there was very little one man could do alone in this remote chateau.  _Find the shapeshifter first_ , he told himself.  If it turned out that there was no shapeshifter after all, then he would alert the authorities in Paris on his way back to the Library.

Thinking that the face-dancer would likely be kept close to the Marquis, the immortal casually stopped one of the serving maids.  Ignoring her nudity as much as possible, he took one of the huge goblets of the wine she carried and casually asked her where he might find her master.  She lazily informed Jenkins that the Marquis was most likely in the banquet hall, and pointed out to him the direction he should take.   He followed the hallway the girl indicated, and soon came upon the main dining hall of the chateau.

It was a huge, cavernous room, hot and humid, dimly lit by torches and candles scattered throughout.  Several long tables loaded with delicacies, beer and wine filled the floor space, and these were surrounded by men and women in various stages of undress and sexual congress.  Not a full-on orgy yet, but close.  Groans of pleasure mixed with cries of pain and fear assailed Jenkins’s ears.  The combined smells of sweat, vomit, urine, feces, alcohol and sex permeated the stale, muggy air and made him suddenly feel queasy.  He quickly dug a scented handkerchief from his waistcoat and held over his nose as he went further into the den of iniquity.  His face twisted in disgust as his feet stuck slightly to the marble floor with each step.

At the far end of the room, upon a specially built dais, sat two elaborate thrones.  In one lolled a costumed man in the guise of the ancient god of wine and debauchery, Dionysus, presiding over the lewd gathering as he shouted encouragement to various of his ‘subjects’.  In the other throne was a wanton ‘Queen Marie Antoinette’ wearing next to nothing, with a huge, elaborate powdered wig that had a tiny crown perched on top.  Various members of the assembly approached the dais and, in an act of profane obeisance, kissed the false god’s erect penis.  A few of the more eager devotees would take it into their mouths and suck on it lustily as the ersatz Queen of France urged them on while she slowly fondled the engorged member of a boy barely out of his teen years who was seated in her lap, one of her breasts in his mouth.  Jenkins shut his eyes tight and shuddered; it was a sight he wished mightily that he could wipe from his memory.

Jenkins started to turn away from the filthy sight, but something caught his eye as he moved his head.  There was something off about the man portraying the god, something about his glittering eyes, his too-wide grin, his unnerving, cackling laughter.  Jenkins then noticed with a jolt of revulsion that the god had an incredibly long penis—impossibly long.  Practically _prehensile_ , in fact.  Suddenly, with a start, he realized that ‘Dionysus’ was in fact the shapeshifter, and that the stories were true:  The Marquis _did_ have a shapeshifter in his employ.  Now that he had confirmation, Jenkins knew what he had to do.  He gulped down the rest of his wine and set the cup down on a nearby table as he turned to leave the hall, to find someplace quiet where he could think and plan undisturbed. 

He had progressed only a short way back down the hallway when he suddenly felt dizzy and was nearly overcome by a wave of nausea.  He stopped for a moment and braced himself against the wall.  Yhe heat in the hallway was oppressive, and his heavy, formal suit of clothes didn’t help.  He reached into a pocket of the heavily embroidered brocade coat he was wearing and withdrew his handkerchief again.  As he wiped the sweat from his face, he removed the powered wig he was also wearing, revealing a thick shock of unruly black hair that was shot throughout with threads of gray.

After a few moments he felt better, and he straightened up while replacing his wig in preparation to leave.  As he started again for the front entrance to the manor, he nearly ran straight into a petite woman coming out of a room.

“ _Pardonnez-moi, madame_ ,” he began to apologize, but then stopped abruptly, gaping.

Before him stood the tiny figure of Charlene, her long blonde hair intricately piled on top her head, wearing a dark blue silk gown that bared her neck and shoulders and brought out the pale blue of her eyes.

“Charlene!” he gasped in surprise.  “What are you doing here?”  She looked up into his surprised brown eyes.

“Galahad!” she said mildly, nodding.  “I could ask the same question of you!”

“I’m here at the direction of the Librarian,” he said, his brow furrowing in consternation.  “Surely you knew?  I submitted a request for the ship’s fare to France, for transport to Paris from Calais, for the hotel, for the other expenses…?”  Charlene laughed loudly, almost a braying sound, and swatted the bemused Caretaker with her closed fan.

“Of _course_ I knew, I approved the requests, didn’t I?” she practically yelled.  “I mean, why are you _here_ , at the Marquis’s party?  It’s not exactly your milieu, after all!”

“It’s the only way to find him and the shapeshifter together, in the same place,” he answered uncertainly.  Charlene wasn’t acting like her usual, no-nonsense self.  He _had_ known her drink too much, sometimes, true, but still…

“Well! Then you should follow me!” she directed him, suddenly whispering like a conspirator.  “I know _exactly_ where the Marquis is!”  With that, she turned and darted into the crowd of revelers.

Jenkins called out to her and immediately followed after her.  Thanks to his unusual height, he was easily able to keep his eyes on her as he made his way through the throngs of partygoers.  She seemed to slip effortlessly through the throngs of drunken revelers, like a wisp of smoke, until she came to a closed door at the end of the corridor.  She stopped and turned to make sure he was still following her.  When she was satisfied that he was still with her, she smiled, pushed the door open and went inside.  Jenkins forced his way past the final few party guests in the hallway, and when he was finally at the door he lifted the latch and went inside.

He was somewhat surprised to find himself in a small library, one wall entirely covered in bookshelves full of neat, leather-bound volumes.  Seated behind a large, intricately-carved and gold-gilt walnut desk was a well-dressed man, tall and gaunt, with dark brown hair and a fashionable goatee.  He looked up from the book he was perusing.

“Ah!  Monsieur Jenkins!  How good of you to come!” the Marquis de Sade greeted him enthusiastically, stopping Jenkins in his tracks.  This was _most_ unexpected. If De Sade knew that he was the Caretaker, then his also surely knew about the Library.  Jenkins straightened himself to his full height and faced De Sade, giving him a small, stiff bow.

“Monsieur l'Marquis,” he rumbled, carefully keeping his expression one of boredom.

Getting up from his chair, the Marquis laughed and stepped around the desk, approached Jenkins with his hands outstretched.  “Oh, there’s no need for such formality here, Monsieur!  Please, you may call me by my Christian name, Donatien.”

Jenkins, smiling blandly, refused the proffered hands.  “If it’s all the same to you, Monsieur le Marquis, I would prefer to remain formal.”

“As you wish, then!” the Marquis shrugged, chuckling at the tall man’s aloofness.  “Come, Monsieur Jenkins, you look rather uncomfortable standing there so rigidly!  Please, sit down!  Let us talk for a bit, get to know one another, shall we?”  He bowed mockingly to Jenkins as he floridly extended an arm to indicate an armchair.  Jenkins said nothing, only smiled blandly and nodded as he started to move.  He was secretly glad to get off of his feet.  His suit was stifling, and he was beginning to feel lightheaded again.

As De Sade guided the Caretaker to the chair, Jenkins did not see the knowing look that the Marquis gave to Charlene.  Once the immortal was seated, the Marquis poured wine for all of them and carried one cup to Jenkins.  The overheated man immediately took a large gulp of the drink.

“I hope you’ve been able to sample some of my ‘party favors’?” he asked, giving Jenkins a lewd wink.  “I know they are low-born, but don’t let that stop you.  They are still the most delectable morsels I could find!”

Jenkins fought to keep hidden an immediate surge of disgust.  “No, I’m afraid I haven’t,” he said, his tone distant.  “I apologize for coming to your home uninvited,” he began, changing the subject.  “I heard many stories about you in Paris, and I was curious.”

“Oh, but you _were_ invited, Monsieur,” the Marquis replied breezily.  “Just in a rather....roundabout way, shall we say?”

Jenkins blinked dumbly several times as he tried to understand what the Marquis had just said.  _Something is wrong here_ , said a warning voice deep inside of him.  His mind was becoming even slower to focus than before in the hallway when he’d felt faint.

“What do you mean?” he asked.  His vision was becoming slightly blurry, and though he felt almost too dizzy to stand, he nonetheless hauled his large frame back onto his feet with a tremendous effort.  He grasped the chair-back to steady himself and took another sip of his wine.

“You must be rather uncomfortable in that prim and proper attire, Monsieur,” De Sade said solicitously, neatly taking the half-empty goblet from his guest’s slack fingers.  He passed it to Charlene so that she could refill it.  “Here, allow me to help you with your coat and waistcoat.  I want you to be comfortable, Monsieur.”

 Jenkins offered no protest as the Marquis slipped the heavy brocade coat from his shoulders and removed his matching waistcoat.  The Marquis quickly plucked the formal powdered wig from Jenkins’s head as well and set the garments aside.  Jenkins’s thick hair was now damp with sweat.

“Ahhh, how utterly _charming_!” purred De Sade as he gently caressed the dazed immortal’s boyish cheek.  “Perhaps, later, you and I can get to know each other even more… _intimately_.”  De Sade retrieved the refilled cup of wine from Charlene and handed it back to Jenkins.  “But right now, we have a little experiment to complete.”

“Experiment?”  Jenkins repeated thickly, confused.  “What experiment?”

“An experiment in morality,” the aristocrat said crisply.  “I want to find out if the reputedly _incorruptible_ can indeed actually be corrupted, and what better subject for such a study than the so-called ‘Incorruptible Grail Knight of Virtue’!”

“Incorruptible knight?” echoed Jenkins, struggling to retain his focus.  His tongue felt heavy and numb in his mouth.    “You...know who I am?”

“Of course, Monsieur!”  De Sade drained his cup.  He slammed it on a table and then struck a dramatically heroic pose.  “You are the legendary knight, Sir Galahad, of the Round Table of King Arthur, yes?  He whose heart was so pure and innocent, that only _he_ was able to look upon the Most Holy Grail!”  He picked up his own cup to refill it.  “And, an immortal being as well.”

“Yes,” said Jenkins simply.  What was wrong with him?  Why couldn’t he think?  “How do you know this?”

“Oh, it’s unimportant _how_ I know things,” said De Sade, waving a dismissive hand.  “It is only important that I know them.  And I know something else important about you, _Monsieur le Chevalier_.”

“What...what is that?” asked Jenkins.  His mouth felt like it was full of cold, wet sand.  His head throbbed slightly with a dull ache.

“That you are a man who has known the sting of rejection, that bitterest of humiliations:  Unrequited love.”  The Marquis crossed to where Jenkins stood gazing stupidly at him, and easily pushed the much taller man back into the armchair.  “Her name was....Charlene, I believe?  Yes, that’s it, Madame Charlene!”

De Sade took a seat in a matching chair directly opposite the Caretaker and gave him a sympathetic look.  “A tremendous disappointment, was it not?”

Jenkins struggled to make sense of what was happening.  “Life...life is full of disappointments, Monsieur le Marquis,” he mumbled.  “One learns...to live with them.”

“Ah!  But that is my point exactly, Monsieur!” the Marquis replied with liveliness.  “It is my personal belief that a man should _not_ have to learn to live with disappointment!  I believe that he should be free to feel the anger, the resentment, the desire for revenge, the lust—all of the so-called ‘sinful emotions’.  And not only should he be free to feel them, he should also be free to _express_ them, in whatever way he believes to be most appropriate!”

The Marquis pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and daintily dabbed his lips as he continued.

“You, for example, Monsieur.  You find a beautiful woman that you wish to possess.  You go to her on bended knees and pour out your heart and your soul to her, and what is your reward?  She tosses you aside for another, for a man _not_ your equal in birth or quality.”  The Marquis shook his head and pursed his lips in pity.  “That had to be a most _mortifying_ experience, Monsieur.  You have my sympathy.”

“I...I...did not want to _possess_ her, I only wanted to love her,” Jenkins protested weakly.  _How did De Sade know about Charlene?_ a distant part of his mind demanded.  “I only wanted her...to love me in return.  To love me as much as I loved her…”

“Love— _Bah_!” spat the aristocratic man with a wave of his hand.  “Love is a foolish sentiment fit only for women!  Lust is a _man’s_ emotion!  It is natural to him, and it should not only be completely free of restraint, but nurtured!  To restrain it in any way is to make a man little more than a eunuch.”

De Sade took an apple from a bowl of fruit on the table next to him and began cutting slices from it with a small knife resting next to the bowl.

“Again, let us take your own situation as an example, Monsieur.  This woman, Madame Charlene, she is low-born, a peasant.  And yet she has the temerity to refuse a nobleman such as yourself!  You, who are covered in glories and honors—a prestigious knight, a true warrior in every sense of the word, a descendant of kings.  You are a prince by birth, the King of Sarras by divine right!  A strong, handsome, high-born man of quality, and yet she rejects you for what?  A nondescript, bourgeois little scholar with absolutely _nothing_ to recommend him except a vast collection of books!”  De Sade’s nose crinkled in distaste, then he popped an apple slice into his mouth and sighed heavily.

“I find it absolutely galling, Monsieur Galahad, I must be honest.  How you tolerate such impudence is quite beyond me.”

The memory of that long-ago day came suddenly unbidden to the stupefied knight, the scene replaying itself with crystal clarity in his mind’s eye.  He felt again by turns the stunned disbelief, the crushing disappointment, the surge of anger born of his humiliation.  _How **could** she have chosen Judson over me?_  He struggled to suppress the bitterness he could feel building within.

“She...she _loved_ him, not me,” he said dully, his eyes now fixed vacantly on the floor.  “I...I couldn’t _force_ her to love me!”

De Sade slid another apple slice into his mouth and made a disgusted face.

“Ugh, ‘love’ again!  What has love to do with anything, _mon ami_?  Substitute the word ‘lust’ for ‘love’.  You were not in love, Monsieur, you were in _lust_ with her, a perfectly natural feeling for a man of your breeding and station!”  De Sade suddenly got up and moved to stand directly in front of Jenkins, looking down into his glazed eyes and pointing at him with the paring knife.

“But you quashed it!” De Sade hissed fiercely.  “You let _her_ tell you how you should feel!  You have done so the entire time you have known her!  You _wanted_ to possess her, body and soul, to express your lust for her physically, but you let her—and her bourgeois little scholar—convince you that that was wrong, simply because she did not feel lust for you in return.”  The Marquis turned and strolled a few steps away from Jenkins.  De Sade’s voice became conversational.

“But the happy truth about lust, Monsieur Galahad, is that it need not be returned in order to be a valid feeling.  One may express it freely with no expectation whatsoever of reciprocation.  It simply ‘is’.”

Jenkins forced himself to focus on the Marquis’s voice, struggling to overcome the powerful feeling of resentment that continued to well up inside of him.

“Lust forced upon another is called ‘rape’, Monsieur,” he said hoarsely.  “A man never forces a woman, nor a woman a man, for that matter.  We are not animals, sir!”

The Marquis burst into a gale of laughter and spun around to face Jenkins.  “But _of course_ we are animals, Monsieur!  Human beings are the very basest of animals!  The only difference is that we lie to ourselves about that fact, try to convince ourselves that we are something more, something better—that we are actually the _children_ of some divine being, that we are some fashion gods!  We are not, Monsieur Galahad, I can assure you!  At our heart we are _all_ beasts, every one.  Even you.”

“No!” Jenkins snapped sharply.  “I...I...would _never_ force myself upon anyone!”

“Ah,” said the Marquis, settling back into his chair.  “And that brings us back to my little experiment.”

He regarded the immortal man before him through narrowed eyes.  How virtuous, exactly, was this so-called ‘paragon of virtue’?  He’d been eager to find that out for a long time now, ever since he had first discovered the existence of the Library and its Caretaker from a member of the Serpent Brotherhood, a man he’d met and become very cozy with at one of his more bacchanalian fêtes over a year ago.  That lovely man had been a wealth of information, and had readily shared the tall Caretaker’s true identity and story with the Marquis—after a bit of ‘persuasion’ from De Sade’s favorite riding crop, of course.

“Monsieur Galahad,” he began, his low voice smooth as oil.  “I mean to give to you a great gift this night!  I will give you something that men dream of but rarely receive:  A second chance.”

Jenkins stared blankly at him.  He was becoming irritated with this silly popinjay who talked in circles.  “Say what you mean, _plainly_ , sir!” he demanded brusquely.

“I mean this,” replied the Marquis, setting the knife and the remains of the apple aside before sitting down in his chair again and leaning forward.  Jenkins unconsciously mimicked the gesture and leaned forward in his own chair.

“You have been drugged, Monsieur,” said De Sade chattily, closely eyeing Jenkins as he spoke.  “A concoction of my own invention and placed into the wine I serve to my guests.  It tends to lower one’s inhibitions, makes one’s mind more amenable to casting aside repressive sentiments and ways of thinking.  I have built up quite a tolerance to it myself over the years, but for someone such as yourself who is unused to it, Monsieur Galahad, it doesn’t take much to make one....tractable.”

The Marquis made himself more comfortable in his chair, satisfied by the look of utter bewilderment on the ancient knight’s face.  De Sade raised a hand and snapped his fingers.  Jenkins was startled to see Charlene set her cup down and move toward him.  He’d completely forgotten about her, but she’d been there the whole time, silently watching and listening to the two men.

He was even more startled as he realized that this was not the Charlene he knew in this modern day, but a younger-looking Charlene.  The Charlene to whom he had confessed his love so many years ago.  The Charlene that had rejected him.

Jenkins stumbled to his feet to stand before her, everything else flying from his mind.  The centuries between that awful day and this one evaporated, and they were once again in one of the fragrant groves of the Heart of the Library on a warm summer’s evening.  He simply stood and stared at her for a long moment, drinking in her beauty.  He tentatively reached out a hand to lightly brush his long fingers against her ivory cheek.  “Charlene....”

From what sounded like hundreds of miles away, Jenkins heard a vaguely familiar voice wend its way into his consciousness.  _Tell her how you feel, Monsieur Galahad!_

“Charlene, I…I love you!” He cupped her face gently in his large hands, the words tumbling from his lips like a waterfall.  “I love you so much, Charlene, and have done so for a long time now.  I tell you now that I willingly pledge my heart to you, my precious one, for all eternity!  Please say that you love me, also!  _Please_!  Foy me, the sun rises and sets on you, and I cannot imagine living the rest of my life without you in it!  Please say that you love me, too!”

The pale blue eyes gazing up into his dark ones suddenly filled with pity and she gently answered him in a tone very like that of a mother speaking to an irrational child.  “I’m so sorry, Galahad, but I do not love you.  _My_ heart belongs to another.”

His chest suddenly felt cold and tight as her words sank in.  “What?” he whispered, stunned and confused.

“ _I do not love you_. Galahad,” she repeated flatly, her eyes and voice suddenly changing from pity to revulsion and scorn.  “You have no idea what true love is!  You are nothing but a silly, fatuous boy!  How could I _ever_ love someone as thick-headed as you?”  His arms suddenly felt like they were made of lead.

“But…but...you have never spoken of another!  You have never dissuaded me—surely you saw the signs of my love, heard it in my words!  I’ve vowed my heart to _you_ , Charlene, for all eternity!  To you alone!  I thought that you…  I thought that we…”  The immortal stammered, filled with dismay, his mind barely able to wrap itself around her unexpected words.  The woman’s lip curled in disdain.

“Proof positive of the fool that you truly are!” she snapped.  “You are _far_ too young for me, Galahad, and we are of completely different stations in life!  I am a co-founder of the Library, I am its First Guardian!  But you?  You are nothing more than a servant here.  We might as well be of different species for as much as we have in common!”

“But...  No!” the bewildered man protested.  “You cannot mean this!”  Charlene laughed shrilly and roughly pushed his hands off of her shoulders, as if his touch carried some loathsome disease.

“I _do_ mean it, Galahad!” she retorted, glaring up into his dark eyes.  “And you will stop this nonsense at once!  I never want to hear of it again!  If I do, I will have no choice but to report it to Judson!”  She turned to walk away from him.

“Charlene!  No!  Wait!” he cried, grabbing her arm to stop her.  Charlene whirled around and struck him, hard, across the face.

 _“Take your filthy paw off of me this instant!”_ she snarled angrily.  “You ignorant swine!  You can barely read or write, yet you _dare_ to think yourself equal to me?  You think because you were once a knight of Camelot that you are _still_ entitled to do or to take whatever you wish?  Idiot!  Arthur and his ‘noble knights’ were nothing more than a nest of loutish thugs!  You lost any standing you may have had when Camelot was finally wiped from the earth!”  Her voice rose in pitch and virulence as she continued to lay into the immortal, her eyes blazing with hatred and disgust.

“Indeed, you lost all right to call yourself ‘noble’ when you allowed Sarras to die through your ignorance, your pride, your neglect!”  Charlene’s face twisted with contempt.  “You have achieved _nothing_ with the immortal life you were given!  You should be a great leader of men by now, perhaps even a Librarian!  You should have great accomplishments to your credit by now, accomplishments that would have benefitted the entire world, but instead you are _nothing_ —you are _less_ than nothing!  You are a _servant_!  A _menial_!  You are here only by our charity, our pity, and that charity can be withdrawn at any time—never forget that!  You are a _servant_ here, nothing more, and you do well to never forget that, either!”

Galahad bore the tirade in silence, his dismay and pain rapidly hardening into anger and resentment as he listened to her hateful words.  He tightened his grip on her forearm, causing her to cry out in pain.

 _“Who is this other man?!”_ he ground out between clenched teeth.  “Who do you deem a more suitable partner than me?  Judson?  That doddering, stuttering ass?  You find _me_ wanting in comparison to him?  You dare to tell me that I’m not good enough for you, that you prefer _him_ to me!”  He jerked her roughly to himself and clamped his hands onto her upper arms, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh to prevent her from escaping.

“ _I love you_ , Charlene!  I love you more than that...that... _toad_ is capable of!  I would lay the world and all of its treasures at your feet!  I would treat you like a queen, an empress, if you would only give me a chance to prove myself to you!”  Charlene stared defiantly at Galahad for a few seconds, her eyes blazing, then spat in his face.

“Swine!” she hissed.  “Savage!  Let go of me this instant!”  Enraged, Galahad grabbed a huge fistful of the hair on the back of her head and gave her a sharp jerk.

“I have served you and the Library faithfully for centuries!” he shouted, his face dark with barely-controlled anger.  “I swallowed my pride and took on the duties of a servant for _your_ sake, in gratitude for your kindness to me in bringing me to the Library in the first place!  I have silently suffered the abuses and indignities that have been heaped upon me by Judson and the Librarians over the centuries, for _your_ sake!  I am due something in return, am I not?  And if you will not give me what is due to me willingly, then I will _take_ it by force!”

Galahad yanked her close and dropped his head to meet hers.  He pressed his mouth against hers and kissed her roughly, biting her lips and forcing his tongue between them as she struggled against him, whimpering in pain.  But he was much stronger than she was, and he held her fast.  She began to pound on his shoulders and head with her fists, but he ignored the painful blows and forced her to kiss him again.  He then moved his mouth over her ear and neck, biting her hard enough to make her cry out, each shriek serving only to stoke his lust into a white-hot inferno.  His free hand began to roam over her small body and in between her legs, roughly groping her.

Charlene continued to struggle against the huge Caretaker, until she finally was able to maneuver herself into a position where she could strike.  She balled her small hand into a fist and rammed it into his crotch with all of her considerable strength.  Galahad howled with pain as he released her and doubled over, the nauseating pain in his gut nearly sending him to his knees.  Charlene backed away from him, out of his reach, but her reprieve was short-lived.  Galahad quickly recovered and, blind with rage, he lunged forward.  He backhanded the Guardian, sending her flying backward and crashing into the trunk of a nearby tree.  He started toward her as she regained her feet, wiping blood from her split lip.  She boldly glared up at him.

“You stupid lout!” she shouted.  “You’ve sealed your fate with the Library now!  When Judson hears of this he’ll turn you out at the very least, though I’ll advise him to lock you up in the dungeons and completely forget about you for the rest of your miserable life!”

Galahad struck like a viper and seized her by the throat with one hand, lifting the tiny woman from the ground.  He slammed her against the tree and began to tighten his fingers around her thin, delicate neck.  He may not be able to actually kill her, but he would crush the immortal’s vertebrae, crush her windpipe, silence that awful screeching, hateful voice for some time to come at the very least, perhaps even permanently.

And he wasn’t about to stop there, either.  He was going to make her pay for her deception, make her pay for leading him on all these years, for making a fool of him.  After he silenced her, he would take her, take what was rightfully his!  He grinned like a hungry wolf as he stared into her panicked eyes, not even feeling the pain as her nails bit frantically into his hand and arm as she tried to fight him off, amused to find that her struggles were actually arousing him.  He reached down with his free hand and began to unfasten the buttons of his trousers.

“No!” Charlene croaked, reading his thoughts.  “ _Do not even think to try_ …!”  He tightened his grip more to shut her up.  Her eyes fluttered and her movements weakened as she began to lose consciousness.  Galahad loosened his grip just enough to give her some air.  He didn’t want her unconscious when he finally taught this bitch what the penalty was for crossing a Du Lac!

Suddenly, time seemed to slow to a crawl.  Galahad saw himself, as if from outside of his own body.  He saw his hand around Charlene’s neck, pinning her to the tree trunk, saw the crazed, remorseless look of animal lust on his face, the fear and panic on Charlene’s face, saw himself on the very edge of actually raping the woman he loved.  In a flash he saw his childhood friend, Branwyn, as she was roughly bent over the table during a banquet, the poor girl weeping and begging for mercy while his father, Lancelot Du Lac, laughed.  Galahad again heard her screaming his name and begging for his help as Lancelot raped her for the amusement of his guests and the “edification” of his weak-willed son.

“NO!” he screamed, and instantly released Charlene.  He stepped away from her as she slumped to the ground in a coughing, gasping heap.  Galahad’s mouth dropped open, slack with horror.  He stared numbly at his two hands, back in his own skin again, shocked that he had been capable of putting them so violently on her, the woman he supposedly cared for so much. 

Revulsion engulfed Galahad as he stumbled back a few more steps.  With a howl of despair, he buried his face in his hands and backed away further still.  Charlene, rubbing her throat, pulled herself upright again and stared accusatorily at him.

“ _Charlene_!” he wailed through his fingers, sickened by his behavior.  “I…  I…  Forgive me!  Please!  I…do not know what came over me…!”

He realized that his head was pounding with pain.  He uncovered his face and looked around.  He blinked in confusion; he was not in the Heart of the Library anymore, nor was he in the past, but he was again in De Sade’s library.  The Marquis was sitting on the edge of an armchair, frowning and watching the proceedings with intense interest.  Charlene—the younger version—stood next to De Sade, angrily glaring at Jenkins.  He could clearly see the red marks around her neck where his hand had been.

“What...what has happened here?” demanded Jenkins, turning to face the Marquis.  “What have you done to us?  Charlene!  Are you all right?  I...”  His mouth tasted like it had been rinsed with acid.  He suddenly recalled De Sade talking about drugging the wine.  Pieces began to fall into place.

“The wine!” he growled.  “You drugged the wine with something _more_ than a mere sedative!”  The Marquis, still frowning, stood and took a couple of steps toward Jenkins.  The Caretaker turned to look at Charlene again.  She now glared back at him with the same eerie, too-wide smile of the Dionysus in the banqueting hall, spreading across her face like the grin of a skull.  She threw her head back and began to cackle wildly, her mouth opening like a maw.  Jenkins now understood what had just happened.

“The shapeshifter!” he said, his voice hard.  “You tricked me into coming here, drugged me with a hallucinogen, and then had this... _creature_ turn itself into Charlene in order to tempt me!”

“Excellent, Monsieur!” De Sade said, giving him a few claps of applause.  “And may I say that you are indeed an incredibly strong man to be able to resist my ‘special vintage’.  Though I must confess that I wasn’t certain how much to give an immortal being.  I wasn’t sure how resistant your kind might be to its effects.”  The nobleman crossed his arms and regarded Jenkins dourly.

“You have ruined my evening’s entertainment, Monsieur,” he said.  “I was so hoping to not only witness the downfall of the Pure Knight of Virtue, but to also take...’full advantage’ of the situation, shall we say?  But, no matter—I shall take it as an ongoing challenge!  I _will_ see you succumb to your basest desires, Monsieur le Chevalier, if not tonight, then on another!”  Jenkins’s face became like stone, his eyes glittering with hatred.

“I think not, Monsieur l’Marquis,” he answered calmly, his gaze never leaving De Sade’s despite the agonizing pounding in his head.  In a flash, Jenkins reached into the sleeve covering his left arm and, from a hidden sheath strapped to his forearm, pulled out a dagger of solid gold.  Before the Marquis could react, Jenkins cocked his arm and hurled the dagger at “Charlene”, striking the giggling shapeshifter squarely in its forehead.  It screeched in agony as it immediately dropped to the carpeted floor and clutched at the dagger lodged in its skull, but it was too late.  The magically-charged blade refused to be dislodged, and within seconds the shapeshifter turned into a pile of brownish, oily dust, the heavy dagger thudding dully to the floor as the shapeshifter was destroyed.

“NO!” shrieked the Marquis, taking several steps toward the doomed face-dancer.  When he saw that there was nothing he could do, he looked over at the immortal, his face red with fury.  “You bastard!  Do you know what I had to do, how much I had to pay, to acquire such a rare prize?!  I will take my recompense out of your hide!”

The Marquis ran over and snatched up the dagger, then turned to run at Jenkins, the knife held high.  Jenkins grabbed the wrist of the hand with the dagger and held onto it tightly as he wrestled with the Marquis.  De Sade, who was much stronger than he looked, managed to draw the tip of the blade across the side of Jenkins’s neck, drawing a thin line of blood.  The immortal gasped with pain and shoved the nobleman away.  De Sade stumbled, almost fell, then turned and ran to the bookshelves that covered one wall.  He wrenched a wall-scone hard to the right and a section of shelving swung inward to reveal a secret passage.  De Sade ducked quickly inside and slammed the shelving closed before Jenkins could reach him.  He tried opening it again, using the wall-sconce as he’d seen De Sade do, but the shelf wouldn’t budge.

“ _Damn_!” Jenkins barked in disgust as he turned and fell back weak against the bookshelves.  Not only had he lost De Sade, but he’d also lost the Dagger of Berosus, the blade forged and enchanted by a Babylonian priest specifically to defeat shapeshifters.  The Librarian would be furious with the loss of the dagger, and Jenkins was sure to receive a severe punishment for taking on the shapeshifter by himself, but at least the creature had been destroyed before it could do any real harm.

He raised his hand to his bloodied neck, felt that the wound had already closed.  He cast a glance at the remains of the shapeshifter and shuddered at what he had almost done.  A wave of nausea swept over him, and the blinding throbbing in his skull grew even stronger.  He turned and rushed from the room, plowed his way through the doped partygoers as he sought to get outside of this cursed manor, all the while hurling recriminations against himself.  How could he have even _thought_ of laying his hands on Charlene like that, let alone _assaulting_ her?  After all of this time, after all of the careful, deliberate effort he’d put into being as little like his father as he could possibly be, how could he have fallen so easily into his father’s way of thinking?  Thank God that it hadn’t really been Charlene, but what if _had_ been her?  He felt physically sick at the thought of easily the idea of violating her had come to him, of having so easily given in to the evil that he carried inside of himself.  _I am, indeed, my father’s son!_ He thought with despair, the words repeating themselves like a hellish mantra.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, he found the front entrance of the manor and burst out into the cold, sharp, night air.  He fell to his knees on the paving stones and vomited, whether because of the drugs he had ingested or out of shame for what he’d almost done, he couldn’t have said.  None of the other party guests paid him any mind; they assumed that the tall, bloodied, half-dressed man with the unbuttoned trousers had simply had too much wine and too much “excitement”.  It was a common enough sight at the Marquis’s parties.

He knelt there on the cold stone on all fours for several long minutes, until the violent heaving finally ceased.  He spat one final time and sat back on his heels, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, his eyes closed as he continued to castigate himself mercilessly.  How would he ever be able to face Charlene after this?  How could he ever trust himself around her now?  The Marquis had been right about one thing:  Jenkins was, indeed, no more than a savage, his bestial nature barely concealed beneath a thin veneer of civility and humanity.  A perceptive woman like Charlene must’ve sensed this truth about him, as well; how else to explain why she always avoided him and avoided the topic of a relationship with him whenever he tried to bring it up?  Perhaps it was time for _him_ to start putting some distance between them as well.

With a groan, he forced the unhappy thoughts from his mind for now and climbed laboriously to his feet.  He didn’t have time for self-pity right now, he would have to deal with all of that later.  Right now he had to focus on getting back to the Library and reporting what had happened to the Librarian.  But first he would stop and notify the authorities in Paris about what exactly went on at the Marquis de Sade’s party this evening, especially in regards to the servants and the children he had captive here.  He would even generously offer to accompany them and lend his own blade in assistance as they cleaned out this sickening sty of depravity.

 

* * *

 

“Jenkins?  Are you okay?”  Eve Baird frowned as she looked into the Caretaker’s vacant, staring eyes.  Getting no response, she waved a hand right in front of his face.  “Jenkins!”

The old immortal jumped and blinked, then turned to look at her, momentarily confused.

“Colonel Baird?” he said, then realized that he’d been caught wool-gathering.

“Colonel Baird,” he repeated, more determinedly this time.  He placed the slide carousel that he’d been holding back into its box and quickly closed it.  “Forgive me, I was lost in thought for a moment; is there something you needed?”  Eve looked unconvinced.

“Are you all right, Jenkins?” she persisted.  “You looked kinda…queasy there for a minute, like you were going to throw up.”  Jenkins pressed his lips tightly together as he finished packing up the slide projector.

“I’m perfectly all right, Colonel, I assure you,” he said curtly.  He realized how short he was being with her, and took a breath.  He turned to look at Baird and plastered a false smile onto his face.

“Some of the slides brought back some long-forgotten memories and I got caught up in them, that’s all.  Nothing important.” His tone indicated that he didn’t want to continue the conversation.  Nonetheless, Eve reached out and put her hand on top of his.  He looked into her eyes and she held his gaze, making sure that he was paying attention to her.

“Forgotten—or deliberately buried?” she asked quietly.  “You’re talking to a soldier here, Jenkins; I know when someone’s having a flashback.”  The immortal dropped his eyes, but remained silent.  Eve gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Listen, I’m not gonna pry.  But if you _ever_ want to talk about anything, and I mean _anything_ …I’m here,” she said.  He raised his eyes again to meet hers, the faintest of smiles on his lips, genuine this time.

“I understand, Colonel.  Thank you,” he replied.  “I appreciate your concern and your offer, but there’s nothing to talk about.  There is, however, a great deal of work to be done before the children go back to Oklahoma.  If you’ll excuse me?”

Eve removed her hand.  Jenkins picked up the boxes and began to walk away.  He stopped after a few steps and, without turning around, called out to Baird.

“Do you believe in the old proverb that says that the apple doesn’t roll far from the tree, Colonel?” he asked.  His tone was off-hand, but Baird’s gut told her that her answer to this seemingly non-sequitur question was important.

“No, I don’t,” said truthfully.  “People can change, overcome their upbringing, all of the sad or tragic circumstances in their lives.  I saw it happen all the time in the military.  It’s happened right here in the Library, with Flynn and Cass and Jake and Ezekiel.  And me.”  She lowered her voice and continued gently.

“And with you, too, I think.”

Jenkins turned around to look at the Guardian, reading her expression and body language, looking for any sign of deception.  Finding none, he gave her a small, final smile, genuine this time, then turned and carried the boxes back to the Archives.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you for taking the time to read this!


End file.
